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It would be easier, Vox knew, if Alastor was a complete asshole all of the time.
Unfortunately, he still had his moments. Moments that reminded Vox why he'd ended up in this humiliating situation to begin with; why even now he still put up with all of Alastor's shit. Moments like just now downstairs, when he'd taken one look at Vox's face and declared the bar closed for the night. No doubt it'd had the added bonus of getting Charlie off his back, at least for now, but he also knew that wasn't the only reason.
Kinda hard to spend fifty years with a guy without learning to read him like a fucking book. Sure, Alastor liked to think that he was mysterious and indecipherable; he was wrong.
"Oh?" Alastor broke the silence before Vox had even managed to close the door behind him, though he didn't turn from where he was busying himself at the sideboard with a bottle of whiskey and two tumblers. "Don't tell me you passed up an evening with Angel Dust!"
It wasn't even worth dignifying with an answer; Alastor, unfortunately, knew him just as well.
"The princess isn't going to let this go," he said instead, leaving Alastor to the drinks as he went to rifle through Alastor's record collection. "What're you going to do?"
"Me?" Alastor paused, and for a moment there was only the gentle sound of clinking ice until it was overlaid by a soft laugh. "Nothing, Vox, do you think she's going to throw us out simply for having an unconventional relationship? Hardly."
Vox almost fumbled the record he was holding, and knew without even looking up that Alastor would be grinning at the ugly pixelated flush that must be flickering across his screen. Bastard.
"Besides," Alastor continued, and carried the drinks over to the side table by the couch, setting them down before waving his hand distractedly at the fire. It flared and crackled dramatically, but Alastor's attention was fixed only on Vox. "It's you she's going to ask. And what will you say, I wonder?"
Hot shame prickled up the back of Vox's neck and he grabbed a record blindly, setting it playing just to have something, anything to break the pressure of the silence. "It's none of their fucking business," he muttered, wincing as brass and percussion abruptly blared out lively and vibrant.
Alastor picked his drink back up to swirl it around the glass. "Maybe she'd feel better if she actually paid you," he said musingly, ears flicking delightedly with the music, "because who's the one taking advantage here, really?" He downed his liquor in one swift gulp, then crooked his finger at Vox expectantly, fondness in the small curve of his smile. "Come, Vox."
He went.
Vox didn't dance anymore, unless it was with Alastor. Because there wasn't anything quite like dancing with Alastor, was there?—perfectly in sync, anticipating every step, twirls and dips with his heart racing and the narrow heat of Alastor's waist fitting perfectly within his palm. By the time the music ended, trailing off into the quiet white noise of softly crackling vinyl they were both breathless with aching feet, and Alastor shoved him away from the drinks cabinet because he wanted to mix up some disgusting concoction probably neither of them would remember tomorrow.
Then later, sat hazily on the couch by the guttering fire burnt down to glowing embers, Alastor sprawled lazily out beside him with his head in Vox's lap, it was easy to forget about everything else. How things might have been, if he'd made different choices in the past. How things might change in the future, whether he wanted them to or not. None of it fucking mattered, because he did get to have what he wanted, sometimes. Right here. And this? This was only for Vox. He buried his claws in Alastor's thick hair, scritching gently at the base of his ears as a soft, pleased huff escaped him.
Asshole.